Her Troika (2 page)

“This is Kurt.”

“Hey, I’m here I think.” Derek leaned forward, trying to make out anything through the opaqueness of the fog. “Yellow gate? Chained up?”

“Yep, that’s me. Glad you’re here.”

The windshield wipers swept across the glass, smearing the condensation from the fog rather than clearing it. Derek cursed, switching them off. “It’s thick tonight, man. Why the hell are you all the way up here?”

“We’ll take about it later. Look Derek—” Kurt’s deep rumble, dropped another octave. “—I need to know one thing.”

“Just don’t tell me you’ve got bodies in your trunk, okay?” Derek’s laugh sounded less forced than it felt.

“Nothing like that. Don’t worry. But I need to know that you’ve got an open mind. You’re going to see things, do things, that will probably be … new to you.”

What? Cloak and Dagger much?

“Kurt, as long as you aren’t killing people for fun, I think I can handle whatever. The guys at work and I have a pool on the first person to learn what the fuck you do on your incognito weekends.”

There was tense silence for a moment. “Derek, I don’t think that’s a good—”

“Kidding, dude. Seriously. Are you gonna open the gate or what?”

Kurt’s chuckle over the line was muted, but it sounded genuine. “You drove the truck, right?”

That’s one tentative check in the non-serial killer column.

“Yep. Once I got one look at the directions you sent I knew a pavement princess wasn’t gonna fly out here in BFE.”

“So drive around it.”

Derek looked at his phone, then put it back to his ear. “Say that again?”

“Drive around the gate. Your rig should be able to handle it.”

“Uh … I guess.” The gravel roadway sloped away on either side, small saplings and brush crowding either end of the gate. Not totally impenetrable. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just, you know,
open the gate
?”

“Sure it would ― if I were anywhere near it. We’re still a ways up the road from the gate. Stop being a pussy and just drive around it. Nobody’s going to care.”

“Except my fucking paint job,” Derek muttered, hanging up. There was an awful screeching sound along the doors as he eased the big Ford through the pine saplings, Derek wincing the whole time.

The roadway meandered up one last, long incline, Derek’s ears popping as he neared the top. There was a house, low, sprawling gray lines stretching away on both sides. Some distance from the house, clustered among several outbuildings and a large fenced enclosure, a large wood barn loomed, its boards also a weathered gray. Surprisingly, several limousines, and dozens of other cars crowded a small gravel parking area next to the barn. Derek could see several figures gathered outside the doorway to the barn, but the fog was so thick he couldn’t make out any detail.

The hulking black form of Kurt’s jacked-up Silverado was canted diagonally near the door of the house, and Derek pulled in next to it. Breanna’s truck wasn’t there, which seemed odd; every time Derek had seen the tall, elegant beauty, she’d seemed attached at the hip with Kurt. Speaking of hips, hers were …

Don’t do it, Derek.

He shook his head as he stepped down out of the truck. He knew it was bad news to ogle his friend’s wife, but a woman (especially an older woman) built like her was impossible not to ogle. It was nature.

Tell yourself that all you want, Mr. Rationalization. You still check out her tits every chance you get. Prick.

“‘Bout time you showed up.” Kurt’s tall, lanky frame stood on the cracked concrete of the front porch, the fog-diffused brightness of the porch light illuminating him in shadowed outline.

Derek pulled the heavy wool flaps of his coat closer. “Tell me this isn’t a hunting trip, Kurt. I will fucking turn back around right now.”

Kurt’s laughter, strangely attenuated by the thick fog, rumbled across the driveway. “No hunting. But there might be some prey.”

“Whatever.” He was used to Kurt’s evasiveness, but this was getting ridiculous. “Where am I crashing?” Derek cocked a thumb. “The barn?”

“Smartass. You’re in the house with me.” Kurt turned, opening the front door, warm yellow light spilling across the porch. He craned his head back over his shoulder. ”The barn’s occupied.”

* * *

“Y
ou remember what we went over, yes?”

Breanna turned toward the smooth voice, thick with the familiar Spanish accent. Lino

“Yes … ” She felt the weight of his hand on the chain attached to her collar. Expectant. “Sir.”

The chain jerked, a reprimand. Her hands twisted at her cuffs. If she could get free, she knew she’d go after the Spaniard.

But here she knew she’d never get free. Not for one second.

“You must be much quicker with the responses, Mrs. Erickson. Any hesitation will be … addressed.”

Insane laughter threatened to bubble out of her at the word. Addressed.

Yes, addressed with the end of a leather whip searing her flesh, extracting tearful apologies, frantic supplications.

“Yes, Lino.” She could feel the flush beneath the cool fabric of the blindfold. “Sir.”

A rough hand glided along her cheek, then the door to the tiny space slammed shut, plunging her into silence once more. Alone.

The straw of the stall (she still couldn’t believe it) poked at her bare legs, itching, bordering on burning. She especially resented Lino for making her strip off her stockings, nice warm woolen ones, and forcing her to kneel in that freezing straw. At least he’d let her keep her skirt and blouse ― she knew she could thank the seasons for that. Were it summer, she’d be ensconced in that stall clothed in nothing but the blindfold, the rope, and her shame.

As if she were some dumb animal, and not a modern woman with a PhD in English Lit. Sure a doctorate in criminal psychology might have helped her suss out earlier the web of cruelty, lust, and fear her husband soon had her enmeshed within, but part of her, that small part she still wasn’t comfortable letting all the way out into the light wouldn’t change it. Not one thing.

You’re insane, Breanna. Truly.

She wasn’t crazy for kneeling, bound, blindfolded alone in a cold, silent stall. Okay, that was a little … out there, but it could be accepted. She had no choice in the matter, therefore, she knelt as she was told. Waiting.

No, what
was
certifiably batshit nuts was the fact that this had happened before.

She turned her head toward the distant sound of a hinge creaking. It was probably nothing. The fucking barn shifted and snapped and groaned all night long, almost as if it were a living thing.

Then two thumps, followed by the faint murmuring of voices could be heard.

“Well, guess it’s not the building”, Breanna muttered, her heart beating faster now. She tried the cuffs again, but they wouldn’t budge. Lino had bound her wrists together, the heavy leather cuffs themselves attached by a short, stout length of chain affixed to a ring bolt embedded in the floorboards beneath the straw. She couldn’t raise her hands from her lap — defenseless.

Not that it mattered really, considering how effective the tight blindfold was. Only a faint sliver of light could be discerned from the bottom of the blindfold, otherwise her visual world existed in purest black.

But the sounds, Lino had left those to her. To wonder, to anticipate — and to fear.

The sounds, two distinct voices were much louder now, the murmured, low speech punctuated by heavy footfalls on the floorboards, and another set of lighter, more frequent, irregular footsteps.

“Hello?” Breanna knew speech was prohibited unless directly spoken to, but kneeling in her stall, invisible to anyone passing by unless the draped their arms over the top of her lonely enclosure, she had the overwhelming urge to talk to someone, anyone, to stave off the boredom — and the sense that she’d been forgotten.

Stupid girl. You’re going to wish you WERE forgotten in an hour or two.

Was that true though? Sure, when she and Kurt arrived, things had gone almost exactly as they had her first time up here. The silent walk from the truck, Kurt’s hand clasping hers in a firm grip, not saying a word, not even looking at her. Kurt’s quick gesture with his hand, not even making eye contact with her, expecting obedience.

Of course, she had obeyed, kneeling on the hard-packed earth, irritated that her new woolen stockings were likely to be stained. Still, she’d felt the cold seep through the fabric, and was thankful for even that modest protection.

There’d been the quick conversation above her bowed head. Kurt’s list of instructions for the groom, Breanna’s face blushing deeply as her husband’s orders became increasingly strict, even severe. Then a quick touch of his big hand to her cheek, and he was gone, the stocky form of Lino standing over her. She’d looked up at the tanned, weathered face, the eyes almost black. He’d smiled at her, his teeth bright against his copper skin, he pulled her to her feet with deceptive gentleness. That had been quickly dispelled when he’d clasped her neck in the collar. Following the tug of the leash, she followed him silently inside the barn

“Which one did Lino say we needed to use?” The man’s voice held a hint of tension, perhaps nervousness?

“Stall two.” A different, deeper voice said. The accent was something she couldn’t place. Almost like a submerged Australian with a hint of something Germanic. “Ah, here we are. Two”

They must have been right outside her stall. Breanna’s heart pounded, and she tried to hunch over, make herself smaller, but the tight chain affixed to her collar prevented her from leaning forward much at all.

Bastard Lino.

One of her husband’s instructions to the groom was to ensure that Breanna couldn’t hide, specifically that she couldn’t hide her breasts. At first, she’d been relieved, fearing she’d have to kneel there in her own little world, her trembling breasts bare for all the world to see.

This was only slightly better, bound so tightly she could neither rise nor lie down, stuck in her kneeling posture. On display like some animal.

“Where should we put her?” Mr. Nervous asked. A note of eagerness had crept into that voice. Anticipation. “That bench?”

“Bend her over it,” the deeper voice said. “There, like that. Spread your legs, girl.” There was a metallic sound of chains. “Yes … there should be one on the other side too. See?”

“Got it,” Mr. Nervous said, grunting.

There were several thunks from the stall next door, the sound vibrating the floorboards under Breanna’s partially numb knees. She wondered how much longer she’d be left in that position, her lower legs threatening to fall asleep soon.

Breanna heard a soft whimper. A female? She heard it again, louder, but she couldn’t make out any words. Another woman! She wouldn’t be alone here after all. It was cold comfort, kneeling there in the straw, but just knowing she wouldn’t be the only woman there this weekend meant she wouldn’t be the sole focus of attention.

Unlike last time.

She shuddered, squeezing her thighs shut at the treacherous tingling in her pussy at the dark memories of her inaugural visit to this place.

Breanna froze at the sound of something metal banging against the wood wall of her enclosure, the air pressure changing ever so slightly.

“Who do we have here?” The deep voice intoned, obviously looking at Breanna. She swallowed, her throat suddenly parched. She stayed very still, the instinct to freeze strong, as if by freezing she could blend into her surroundings, hide from the predators.

“I’m not sure. Tits look to be almost as big as Simona’s.”

“These are bigger,” Deep Voice said. “Simona’s shorter, makes them look bigger. This
lecker
here’s a tall one, she is.”

Lecker? Breanna struggled to remember. It was familiar — very familiar. Then she had it.

It was a slang term, something she remembered hearing on a travel show on the radio a few days ago.
Lecker
meant luscious or wonderful. It was South African. Now she could place that accent!

Way to go, genius. You’re still bound here like a prize turkey. Figuring out someone’s accent doesn’t solve the problem at hand, does it?

“Wonder why they’ve got her clothes still on her?” Mr. Nervous. Chatty motherfucker. Breanna wanted to kick him in the nuts.

“Doesn’t matter,” the South African said, his voice turning away and back into their stall. “We’ll all get a look at what she’s hiding soon enough.”

“Oh? How?” Mr. Nervous’s voice turned away too, and Breanna let out a breath, tension ratcheting down ever so slightly.

The thought of these strange faceless men … touching her, was disturbing — but not nearly as much as she thought it should be.

“How does this even come off?” Nervous man was no longer so nervous, his voice thick. “Does this
ever
come off, Johan?”

A name! Breanna almost exclaimed it aloud. She committed it to memory, knowing she’d likely have little chance to confirm the information. Tightly blindfolded nearly that entire inaugural weekend, there were several nameless men who’d been privy to rather … intimate knowledge of Breanna’s person. The only things she knew of them were the cruel hands, the gruff, demanding voices, and the relentless pounding of their hard cocks.